


You

by rattmann



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattmann/pseuds/rattmann
Summary: Philza sings Wilbur a song as he puts him to rest one last time.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	You

**Author's Note:**

> Ayo I have so many wips for these stupid block men and for some reason I just can't stop writing family angst
> 
> The song I used for this fic is called You by Keaton Henson, if you're curious. The link is right below this. I just couldn't get the image of Phil singing this to a dying Wil out of my head so I had to write it
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxQLNxFA1Mg

“If you must wait,” Phil starts, pulling his boy into his arms. Wilbur coughs weakly, the blood in his throat gagging him as they shift. The sword buried in his chest made it feel like he was on fire, slowly killing him as the time passed. Yet despite that, there was the bare hint of a smile on his face. Philza brushed the sweat slicked hair out of Wil’s eyes, ignoring how his fingers trembled. “Wait for them here in my arms as I shake…”

Wilbur hums, the action causing him to gurgle the blood in his mouth. He coughs again, and Phil’s heart shatters at the sight of his boy's blood on his lips. He always hated seeing his son bleed.

“If you must weep,” There are tears pouring down Wilbur’s face, Phil can’t tell if they’re happy tears or not. He wipes them away gently with his thumb. His wet cheeks remind Philza of a simpler time, when Wilbur was younger. When he would stumble into Phil’s room late at night, sniffling after a nightmare or a particularly shitty day.

When Philza was home, he’d usually unconsciously wrap a wing around his weeping son. And when he wasn’t, Wilbur would curl up into his bed anyways, nestling underneath the blankets as he cried himself to sleep. There were tear stains on his pillowcases, but Philza never had the heart to replace them. Wilbur’s face now consisted of permanent eye bags, he wonders when Wil slept last. If he even had a bed to lay in. “Do it right here in my bed as I sleep.”

“I like this song.” Wilbur rasps, voice quiet. His teeth are red with blood. And if Philza listened hard enough, he could hear Wil’s lungs clicking as they struggled for oxygen. Phil shushes him with a quiet voice, cupping his son's face with a quivering hand. Speaking would only hurt him even more, and Phil knew he was already in so much pain.

“If you must mourn, my love…” Philza remembers the letter he had received from Tommy, how he had written with his messy handwriting about how the election had turned out. How Wil had lost everything. His nation, his friends, his son. That was the last letter Tommy ever sent. Techno had told him in a later letter, that oftentimes he would find Wilbur right outside of their base, staring up at the night sky with a cigarette in hand. His eyes always seemed to be so watery, as if he were ready to burst at any given moment. He was grieving over the life he had made for himself, the life he had lost. “Mourn with the moon and the stars up above.”

Wilbur is coughing again, a pained wheeze escaping him as he does so. Phil watches as one of his own tears hits Wilbur’s face with a wet splat, he can’t bring himself to wipe it away. Is he really about to lose his son? His baby boy? Wil is struggling to keep his eyes open, the tight clutch he had on Phil’s kimono was loosening.

“If you must mourn…” Wilbur has always been stubborn, and he never took loss easily. Whether it was losing his favorite guitar pick, or not being able to find the sweater he wanted to wear that day. His stubbornness didn’t dissipate as he grew up, determined to gain independence for the nation he built. To _keep_ the nation he built. Wilbur was never good at accepting defeat, especially when it came to the things he cared about. And he could never be left alone, after losing things. Always needing someone around to keep him grounded, or else he would snap. Phil knew this was the time Wilbur needed someone, yet for some reason he didn’t let anyone in. Surely someone was willing to help his boy? “Don’t do it alone.”

There's blood and ash everywhere. Philza didn’t mind the sight of the bodily fluid too much, he was friends with Technoblade afterall. Yet… something about seeing his son's blood made him feel nauseous. His beautiful boy's pale face, dull brown eyes, the only color being _red._ Nothing but red.

“If you must leave,” Philza remembers when Wilbur had left their home. The only thing on his back being his guitar and a bag of clothes. He was so happy that day, bright brown eyes and wide smiles. Phil knew his son was going to do big things in the world, going to make a name for himself. That’s why he was so willing to let his boy go, but as he holds his nearly lifeless body close… he can’t help but wish he would’ve made him stay. “Leave as though fire burns under your feet.”

Philza was right, Wilbur became an icon in the world. Building a country from the ground up, fighting in a war against Dream and _winning._ He was adamant on doing great things, making sure he left a mark on the world. He just wishes that his son didn’t have to run from his creation, wishes that he wasn’t forced out of his home. He wishes his son wasn’t leaving this world.

“If you must speak… speak every word as though it were unique.” Wilbur was always amazing with his words. He’s been that way his entire life. Resolving conflict with a conversation rather than with a sword, never a man for violence. Creating beautiful music, that made Phil more and more proud of his son as time went on. Wil’s gift with words never disappeared, but something in him had broken when he realized words didn’t mean shit in a world like this. He had forgotten just how special he truly was.

“If you must die, _sweetheart_ -“ Philza’s voice breaks, he doesn’t know how long he’s been crying for. Wilbur is still looking up at him, with that same stupid smile. His breaths are getting weaker, but he looks so content. This wasn’t the monster Phil had thought he was, this was just Wilbur. His son. “Die knowing your life was my life’s best part.”

Phil feels the realization finally start to settle in. His son was dying. He had stabbed his son in the chest, and now he was bleeding to death. He had killed his son. It was Wilbur’s last life, he wasn’t coming back from this. The best thing that’s ever happened to Philza is currently dying in his arms, his darling boy.

“If you must die… remember your life.”

Although Wilbur was more than fine with his death - much to Phil’s dismay - he was weakly clawing at the sword buried in his body, as if he was trying to get it out of him before he passed. He didn’t look panicked, not at all, despite his body fighting for survival. He was too frail to do anything but squirm in Phil’s arms, struggling to breathe. 

Wil whimpers, tears pricking his eyes as his body tries to force him to stay awake. He’s tugging slightly on Phil’s shirt now, sword in his chest forgotten. “Dadza… Daddy, it hurts…”

He almost can’t bring himself to respond, guilt eating him alive as his boy begs for him to make it stop. To take his pain away for good. Put him out of his misery. Philza pulls Wilbur closer, supporting his weight with a hand on the back of his head and the other on the small of his back. “Shh, it’s okay. It’ll be okay… don’t fight it, son.”

Wilbur’s breath hitches, and he’s clinging to Phil like a lifeline. Fingers grasping onto his shoulders and refusing to let go, Philza wraps his demolished wings around his boy one last time. Protecting him from the world, one last time.

“You are-” Philza can feel Wilbur’s breath quickening against him, body still trying to save itself. He presses a gentle kiss to Wil’s temple, “You are…”

“Oh, you are…” It’s too much. It’s all too much. He hasn’t hugged his child in years, not since he left to join this torturous server. Yet here he was, after all this time, hugging his perishing son's body. “You are…”

Wilbur’s breath finally slows, his body finally accepting its fate. He takes one last feeble exhale, and then he’s sagging completely against Phil. Hands on his shoulders losing their strength, sword pushing even deeper into his chest at the movement.

It reminds Philza of a time in the past, when Wilbur would cry into his arms over something trivial before calming down. Wilbur would cling to him even after settling, pressing his wet face into Phil’s neck as they held each other. Quiet sniffles escaping his little body as Phil coos gently at him.

But this is not now, and Philza finally comprehends that Wilbur isn’t _breathing._ No puffs of warm air, no hands clutching onto him, no nothing. Just Wilbur’s corpse.

_Oh._

He starts to wail, then. Rocking his boy back and forth, another thing he would do when Wilbur was merely a child. But he wasn’t a child, not anymore. He was a grown man. He had a home, and his own family, and he had a _life._ It was all gone now. He was gone.

“If you must fight,” Phil’s voice cracks, tears streaming down his face. This wasn’t fair. The gods were cruel, but did they have to be this cruel? His boy shouldn’t have _had_ to fight. “Fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night.”

Philza wonders how much his son argued with himself, especially towards the end of his life. He knew about the tnt. He knew about Wilbur’s confliction on if he should go through with his plan or not. He knew. He knew, and he let his boy succumb to crazed paranoid thoughts anyways. He knew, and he let his boy push everyone away from him as he watched from the sidelines. Could he have done something beforehand? Before Wilbur had ultimately made up his mind? If Phil stepped in earlier, would his kid still be dead in his arms?

“If you must work… work to leave some part of you on this earth.” He presses a wet kiss to the crown of Wilbur’s head. Wilbur’s legacy wasn’t supposed to end like this. It was meant to end much different than this. Philza wishes the thing Wil left on the world was something grand, something that made people marvel. Not a giant crater in the ground. Not ever this.

“If you must live, darling one,” He holds his boy to his chest even tighter, refusing to let go. He can’t let go. Hot, wet, tears are dropping onto Wilbur’s unruly hair. More than anything he hopes this is just some sick and twisted nightmare. That Wilbur is just sleeping, and he’ll wake up. Everything will be okay, his boy just needs to open his eyes. “Just live.”

His fingers are tangled in Wilbur’s hair, his other hand is grasping the trench coat that was just a size too big for his son. The same trench coat he had gifted him on his birthday, so many years ago. Sobs are wracking his body, as he cradled Wilbur’s corpse. He’s begging his son to come back to him. He can’t lose him, he _can’t._ “Just live!”

His pleas go unheard, of course they do. Wilbur was already long gone. Philza’s destroyed wings are shuddering as he bawls, holding his son as close as he possibly can. His sweet boy. He should be living life, right now. Raising his son, being a guide for his self proclaimed younger brothers, playing music for the world to hear. He shouldn’t be lying here, sword sticking out of his body as his father weeped. He shouldn’t be dead. Not yet. Not so soon.

_“Just live.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think about this, if you'd like! If not that's pog too. Hope you enjoyed :)


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